Lydia hesitated. “Yes,” she finally answered.
Suddenly the kitchen seemed too small. I rose and murmured my thanks to Mrs. Gordon before I fled out the door, leaving Lydia to explain the strange ways of her Northern relatives.
Meanwhile, outside, I grasped the porch railing and took a deep cleansing breath of the mountain air. Lydia had said anyone who crossed the Dorans met with misfortune, and poor Oscar certainly had. She’d also talked about sensing death, and the conversation was right after we’d witnessed his run-in with Sharon Doran. Was it his death she’d felt?
Before I had time to pursue that line of thought, the screen door banged and Lydia joined me on the porch. Together, we walked to her SUV in silence.
After we both buckled up, she leaned forward and was about to turn the key when I reached out and touched her hand, stopping her.
My throat tightened and I swallowed hard. “Did you see the poppet?”
“Yes.” Her jaw clenched as she started the engine. With a quick glance at the side mirror, she cranked the wheel and headed the vehicle down the lane.
“Sharon?”
She nodded, not looking at me. “Another death to lay at her door,” she whispered softly.
“What?” I sat back in my seat and crossed my arms over my chest. “You can’t believe she hexed him dead with a poppet made out of potato?”
“I’ve seen stranger things happen in these mountains.”
“Oh come on—magick can’t kill,” I scoffed.
Lydia’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Tell that to Oscar.” She shot me a sideways glance. “You’ve never seen a hex work?”
“No, I’ve read about them in the journals. And Abby’s talked about what can happen if magick is used in a negative way.” Sitting forward, I turned toward her. “Don’t you have to believe in the witch’s power in order for it to hurt you?”
“Oh, people around here believe in Sharon’s power, all right,” she said in a firm voice.
“But I heard Aunt Dot say her magick was weak,” I insisted.
“All I know is what I’ve seen…Oscar insulted her, she cursed him, now he’s dead.”
The ramifications of Lydia’s remarks hit me hard. Sharon had not only threatened Oscar that day at Abernathy’s, but also Abby. Was her magick really that strong? Strong enough to harm Abby? I felt beads of cold sweat gather on my upper lip. Wiping it away, I turned and stared at the passing homesteads as thoughts raced around in my head.
And in the distance, the church bells began to toll.
Twelve
News of Oscar’s death spread quickly throughout the valley, and when Abby heard the story, her reaction surprised me. Instead of asking questions, a look of great sadness seemed to come over her and she quietly left the room. Aunt Dot and Great-Aunt Mary hadn’t much to say about it either. Was it because of the connection to the Dorans? Given Oscar’s confrontation with Sharon, everyone in the valley suspected that she’d cast a spell against him, but no one came out and said it. They were all afraid.
But no one knew about the poppet. Lydia had recommended that we leave that part out. She’d gone back later and taken care of it by burying it under an oak tree to end the magick. She’d also adopted the big black dog…Jasper.
Now, two days later, I found myself standing in a sea of black and over an open grave as I watched them lower Oscar Nelson’s coffin into the ground. Not imagining that I’d be attending a funeral, I hadn’t brought what the Aunts’ considered appropriate clothes for the occasion, so I wore a borrowed dress of Lydia’s. Abby stood next to me, wearing a distinctly old-fashioned dress of Great-Aunt Mary’s. Mom, however, had used the event to buy another little black dress to add to her overflowing closet. At least I hadn’t had to worry about rounding up something for Tink. Given her sensitivity to cemeteries, we’d all agreed it would be best if she stayed at the house with Dad.
I tried to weasel out of the funeral, but it didn’t work. The Aunts had let me skate the night before when they hadn’t forced me to attend the wake. Thank goodness. I’d watched them toddle out of the house with Lydia, their arms laden with baskets of food—rolls, ham, salads, and two pies—all gifts for Oscar’s grieving family. When they arrived home, they couldn’t quit going on about how natural Oscar looked. How a dead person looked natural was beyond me, but I nodded politely.
Earlier, when we entered the church, I’d heard a few whispers as we passed by. I didn’t know if the attendees were gossiping about Yankee relatives or the fact that I’d been the one to discover the body, but I ignored the whispers and focused on Abby.
All during the lengthy service, she’d been unusually pale and her face looked pinched. I couldn’t understand why. Had Oscar been one of her childhood friends? Maybe her first boyfriend? I tried asking her about it, but she blew me off. And now all I wanted to do was get through the rest of the day.
This old cemetery had been in existence for years, and I knew the family burial plot was somewhere nestled among the pines. The only one missing was Robert—he’d never left France. And from where I stood, I could pick out the writing on many of the weathered stones. “My beloved wife” followed by the year 1868. A lamb or a praying angel with the date of birth and date of death too close together. Children who’d never made it past their fifth birthdays.
My attention was suddenly caught by an old woman standing at the back of the crowd on the other side of the open grave. She was dressed in a faded black coat, but around the bottom of the coat dangled a swath of bright fuchsia. Not exactly the somber black that all the other women wore. Her shoulders were hunched forward with age, and she had wisps of gray hair hanging from beneath her hat. A hat that may have been the rage in 1942, but now looked old and battered. A black veil hid her features, yet I could feel her eyes appraising me. With a slight nod of acknowledgment, she took a step back and disappeared behind the man standing to her left.
Puzzled, I leaned close to Abby and was about to point out the strange old lady when I heard Oscar’s coffin bump the hard ground. Looking across the grave, I watched as a man stepped away from the group standing next to the gaping hole. He picked up a handful of dirt, and walking slowly up to the open grave, cast it in.
I heard it thud and scatter as it hit the lid.
It was the signal to leave, and as everyone turned, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Next to me, Abby gasped.
Sharon Doran stood a short distance away, holding a bunch of fall flowers, next a stone with “Doran” carved in bold lettering.
The hush turned to an indignant buzz while the mourners scurried by her, their faces averted. Every so often someone would cast a glance over their shoulder, as if to make sure Sharon didn’t follow them.
Taking Abby’s arm, I escorted her over the rough ground on the way to Lydia’s waiting SUV. We’d almost made it when Sharon stepped directly in front of us.
“You’re the one,” she said with a nasty sneer as she pointed to Abby. “I never have gotten a good look at you.”
I wasn’t going to stand for this. “I’ll meet you at the car,” I said as I blocked Sharon.
When Abby was a few yards away, I focused my attention back on Sharon. “It appears you aren’t welcome here,” I stated, referring to the sideways looks she was getting from the retreating group.
She lightly stroked the petals of the flowers she held. “I’m just here to put flowers on my granny’s grave,” she said in all innocence.
Yeah, right.
“Well, you’re timing stinks.” I made a move to pass her, but she sidestepped in front of me.
“I told you to leave, but you’re not listening.” She jerked her head toward Oscar’s still open grave. “I hope you remember this.”
I took a step forward. “Are you threatening me?”
She arched an eyebrow as she carelessly lifted a shoulder.
Narrowing my eyes, I crossed my arms. “I suggest you back off. I’ve heard the stories…you’ve got everyone around here scared.
” I dropped my arms. “But I’m not one of them.”
As I said it, I felt the power jolt through me, fueled by my anger. I tamped it down. This was not the place for a showdown.
Turning on my heel, I looked over my shoulder at her as I walked away. “You can take your little bag of tricks and stuff it.”
Back at Oscar’s the first thing I noticed were women going around the room, uncovering mirrors draped with black cloths, and starting clocks.
“What are they doing?” I asked as Aunt Dot shoved a plate of food in my hands.
“Ack, the mirrors stay covered until the body’s taken off for burial.”
“Why?”
She made a tsking sound as if everyone should know the answer to that question. “If a body sees themselves in a house shared by the recently departed, they’ll be the next to die.”
“Same thing with the clocks?”
“No,” she said slowly. “It’s done out of respect for the deceased. Lydia took care of it while she was waiting for the sheriff.” Her voice carried a little note of reproach.
I guess I should’ve gone in when I found the body and stopped them.
With a shake of my head, I began to cross the room to where Abby sat on a chair against the wall, paler now than she’d been at the funeral. As I passed a couple of women, I caught a snatch of their conversation.
“Did you see her, bold as brass standing there?” one of them asked in a shocked voice.
Were they talking about Sharon?
I dawdled by pretending to admire the group of photographs laid out on the table near them. I wanted to hear what they had to say.
“Yes,” the other hissed. “And did you notice Granny Doran’s grave? Not a blade of grass growing—nothing but weeds.”
“Humph, as evil as she was, there’ll never be nothin’ but.”
Okay, if you’re bad, grass won’t grow over your grave…got it.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the women glance my way. Turning her head, she leaned in closer to her companion.
I strained to hear her whisper.
“And now, with Abigail here.” She raised her eyebrows and gave her friend a knowing look.
The other woman nodded her head slowly. “Nothing but trouble,” she said sadly.
Trouble for whom?
After the funeral, my curiosity ran high, but I tried ignoring it by taking long walks and reading. I also kept my senses on the alert for any bad magick headed our way. I still didn’t know if I believed a witch could kill with spells, but I had no intention of finding out. Hopefully, by showing Sharon at the cemetery that I wouldn’t be bullied, she’d leave us alone. And as long as she didn’t try any of her tricks on us, I’d follow Lydia’s advice and stay away from her.
It was after one of those walks that I arrived back at the house to find Great-Aunt Mary sitting on the porch in one of the ancient rocking chairs. Her crochet hook flashed in the sunlight, keeping pace with the even back and forth sway of her chair.
My heart did a slow slide to the pit of my stomach. So far on this trip, I’d managed to not be alone with her, and I would’ve preferred to keep it that way. My eyes searched the yard for a sign of Abby or Aunt Dot, but I didn’t find them. I had no choice—the only way into the house was past Great-Aunt Mary. With heavy feet, I crossed the yard and climbed the steps to the porch.
“Been out for a walk?” she asked, not raising her head from her work.
“Ah,” I mumbled as I slipped by her, “yeah.”
Almost to the door, I thought. One more second and I’d be inside, away from her. My hand reached for the handle of the screen.
“Sit a spell,” she suddenly commanded.
I yanked my hand back, and with reluctance took a place in the rocker next to her.
“What are you making?” I asked, watching her hook catch the dark purple yarn and turn it into an ever growing chain.
“An afghan for Tink,” she replied, her face softening as she said Tink’s name. “You’ve quite a girl there.”
Oh, my gosh, Great-Aunt Mary said something nice to me. “I know,” I answered, trying not to sound boastful. “Tink is a treasure. Adopting her was one of the best things I’ve ever done.”
Great-Aunt Mary lifted her head, her pale blue eyes focusing on a spot near the corner of the barn. A wistful look stole across her wrinkled face as her hands stilled and the rocker stopped.
“I’ve often wondered—” She shook her head, cutting herself off. “I’ve seen a lot of trouble in my century of living, and I’ve known too much about the private lives of folks around here…” Her voice dropped and I had to sit forward to catch her words. “It’s made me never regret not marrying, but I do miss children,” she said almost to herself.
Frowning, her rocking resumed at a quickened pace and her hook darted around the yarn.
“Not that I didn’t have my chances at marrying, mind you,” she continued in a strong voice. “Joseph Carmicheal courted me something fierce. Could’ve had him if I’d wanted,” she finished with a sniff.
Did I dare ask why she hadn’t wanted him? But before I could, she continued.
“He got tired of waiting around for me to make up my mind. Got himself married to a gal over by Asheville, had a passel of kids, and went to an early grave, leaving his widow to fend for herself.” Her head wobbled from side to side as her hook flew faster. “And with all those children…just as well I didn’t marry him.”
The way she sat, her spine straight and her mouth in a thin line, said she spoke the truth, but I sensed something deeper. A feeling of opportunities missed, of joy not experienced, lurked in the corner of her heart. A corner that she never revealed to anyone. I felt I should say something comforting to her, but she was such a hard woman that I didn’t think my sympathy would be appreciated. She wouldn’t want to know that I saw the chink in her armor.
I said nothing and an uncomfortable silence lengthened.
Great-Aunt Mary shifted in her seat, and as she did, I could feel her draw the shell back around her once again.
“Humph,” she abruptly said, breaking the silence, “I heard you had words with Sharon Doran, not once but twice.”
“Lydia told you?”
Her eyes fastened on me. “I don’t need to rely on others.” She shifted her attention to the far mountain and her hook paused. “Restless spirits roam these hills.”
I waited for her to explain.
“That girl’s granny’s one of them,” she said, focusing on her crocheting again.
All my good intentions about ignoring the Dorans went out the window as my curiosity reared its little head. Okay, Jensen, here’s your chance—she was the one who mentioned them—ask a few questions.
I sat forward. “Has the grandmother been gone long?” I asked, easing into the subject.
“No,” she replied. “She recently crossed over. Or at least that’s what she should’ve done,” she finished cryptically.
Mean old Granny Doran haunted the mountains, huh? Peachy. What was supposed to be a family reunion was turning into something entirely different. Now I could add a nasty ghost to my list of concerns. Just how many more Dorans did I have to worry about?
“Are the Dorans a big family?”
“Big enough,” she snorted. “They started with the three boys. Only one left is the eldest—Zachary—a more deceitful man than him never drew breath.” She gave her head a slight shake. “The middle one was killed in a bar fight down in Knoxville, and the youngest—Sharon’s daddy—was killed along with his wife, in a car accident. Drunk driving.”
“That’s a lot of tragedy for one family.”
Her eyes swung in my direction. “I’m not saying they deserved an early death, but all three of those boys were wild and wicked.”
The image of Sharon staking a claim on Ethan sprung to mind. Were there other Doran women waiting to pounce on him? “What about their daughters? Are they wild and wicked, too?”
“Sharon’s t
he only girl child in the family.” Great-Aunt Mary snickered. “She’s cut a wide swath through this valley, that’s for certain, and wicked?” She paused and her eyes narrowed. “Someday her deeds will come home to roost.”
Might as well lay it out on table, I thought. “I know she’s a witch, Great-Aunt Mary. I saw how everyone acted at the cemetery. They all think she caused Oscar Nelson’s death.”
“Ha, Oscar’s had a stomach ailment for years. He died of a hemorrhage and that’s the truth,” she huffed. “Her a witch?” Great-Aunt Mary’s lips twisted in a sneer. “She thinks she understands magick, but she doesn’t. She uses it for her own selfish reasons. She’s hoodwinked everyone in this valley.”
“How?”
Great-Aunt Mary placed her crocheting in her lap. “All her worthless cousins and her uncle thinks her spells protect them…they can do anything they want and nothing will touch them,” she said without really answering my question. “Time’s a-comin’ when it’s going to fall down around their ears.”
Again I thought of Ethan and his undercover assignment. Did Great-Aunt Mary “see” Ethan as the instrument of justice that would bring the Dorans down? Should I ask her? Could I ask her without giving Ethan away?
“Ah,” I stammered, “I have a question—”
Her cackle cut me off. “You’re full of questions, girl, but you won’t get any more answers from me.”
Her smug attitude irritated me.
“I can find out on my own, you know,” I blustered. “You have your ways and I have mine.”
She cackled again as she gathered up her yarn. “No, you don’t. When you were a girl, maybe,” she said, shoving the yarn and pieces of Tink’s afghan in a bag lying next to her chair. “You’ve ignored your talent too long for it to be of much good.”
I jerked forward, insulted by her remark. “You’re wrong,” I insisted.
“I’m not,” she argued back. “I told your grandmother years ago to get a handle on you, but she ignored me. Now it’s too late. You’ll never be what you were meant to be, more’s the pity.” She rose slowly to her feet and gave me a hard look. “You’ve let the family down.”
The Seventh Witch Page 8
